Red and Blue
by kramer53
Summary: Tony Stark has killed millions. He has killed millions, yet does nothing. And he has the nerve to act like everything is okay between him and Wanda. But it's not. He killed her parents. He killed her brother. And now she's going to kill him.


**I'm sorry, please don't kill me. This was for Gray's Halloween contest, prompt 2. Also a tremendous thanks to my good friend JubileeProductions for reading this over and editing for me. Couldn't have done this without him.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **...**

Life, Wanda thinks, is something precious. It takes up all space, makes the world as we know it. She's hyper-aware of every living thing around her, every intake of breath, every slight of movement, the beating hearts of even the smallest creatures, even those that have none. Trees and animals and insects, and even the rocks and the ground and the water all have something in common: they _live_. Not in the way science describes life, but in the way that Wanda sees it. Everything vibrates with natural energy; everything breathes through it. She sees thin threads of energy that connect the ground to the sky, the oceans to trees, birds to rocks. Everything is _alive_ , and no one else knows it. No one but her.

That's why, when Pietro died, her world crumbled. The thin, white, sparking threads that she learned to sort through over the years went rigid. They stuttered, freezing in space for a fraction of a second. Time seemed to move in slow motion. Wanda saw the lone thin, bright blue strand intertwined with her blazing scarlet one grow taut. It quivered for a moment. And then her world shattered into thousands—millions—of fragments as the line snapped before her very eyes.

It snapped, floating briefly in an invisible wind like the silk of a spider web. It's brightness—it's blue tint—faded quickly into a normal white, then a dull gray, until, finally, it turned black and cold.

Pietro was dead.

Her brother—her _twin_ brother, the person she had shared every moment, every breath, every emotion with—was dead.

Gone.

She barely recalls screaming, barely recalls her soul viciously ripping itself free from its shield around her heart and forcing its way out of her throat, clipping the sides raw as it went, and escaping into the cruel, deadly world outside. She barely recalls falling to her knees in anguish and releasing that burst of scarlet magic that obliterated Ultron's machines.

Everything was a blur.

What Wanda does remember, however, was her violently convulsing thread reaching out to grab Pietro's, pulling it close and wrapping it around her own.

Now, on another plane of her vision, she sees it. A scarlet strand vibrating to its own frequency with a dead, black one curled around it, unmoving, lifeless. It's a constant reminder of what she has to do—no matter the cost.

Wanda ghosts across an empty, darkened field to the small, quaint farm house that rests in the middle. A single lamp illuminates the porch, the only light in miles save for the luminous rays of the moon and twinkling of stars shining down upon the Earth. She slips silently into the house, unnoticed, and climbs the stairs, careful for the boards she knows creak underfoot.

When she reaches the top, she passes several doors until the room she's looking for looms before her. Wanda eases the door open enough to slide in, weary of the screeching hinges.

It doesn't matter anyway, because the moment she turns to face the inside, a figure is already sitting up, staring at her with a hawk-like gaze. They make eye contact, the figure raising a finger to his lips. He gestures to the window with a slight tilt of his head as he quickly, but quietly, slides out of bed.

Wanda glances out of the window to where she can barely make out the silhouette of another building in the darkness. She doesn't stay as he gazes longingly at the other sleeping person, the figure's dark hair spread across the pillows. She's already down the stairs, out of the house, and heading to the indicated barn. The witch enters and sits on a pile of hay in the corner, patiently waiting for him to appear.

A few minutes later, he enters and turns on a light she didn't notice. It illuminates his face, exposing his rough, stern features.

Clint Barton crosses his arms and shoots Wanda a confused, worried look. When she doesn't speak, he does.

"Wanda," he greets lamely, his voice low and gravely, matching his outward appearance.

She nods in return, just barely. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Clint sighs and grinds his teeth together, jaw sharpening with the movement.

"You feel the same way." She picks at her chipped black nail polish. "Don't you?"

He acknowledges her with a slight tilt of his head. "Yes, but—"

"Then why protect him?" Her interruption is angry, forceful.

At this, he studies the ground intently. Wanda feels her magic stirring from deep within her, longing to lash out at his blatant disregard for Stark's actions. She pushes it down, red sparks receding back into her skin.

"Because he doesn't deserve whatever you're planning for him," Clint finally answers, leveling his gaze at her. Then, he rushes to finish before Wanda can interject again. "And neither do you."

She narrows her eyes and bites the inside of her mouth until the coppery tang of blood washes over her tongue. Wanda hops off her spot on the hay. She approaches him at an agonizingly slow pace, but Clint refuses to yield.

"What," she murmurs as she tilts her head back to look him in the eye, "do you mean by that?"

"Stark isn't responsible for Pietro's death. Ultron is, I am. And you—you can't live the rest of your life paying for acting on blind rage"

"But isn't he?" Wanda ignores Clint's comment about the future. That isn't important right now. "He created Ultron. He created weapons of mass destruction—weapons that killed my parents. He's killed millions of others, too.

"I'd be doing the world a favor," she hisses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Without a hint of hesitance, she answers, "Yes."

A heavy silence envelops them. They sit there, staring into each other's eyes, refusing to back down. It's Clint who breaks the invisible war between them.

"If you do this, you'll become what you've always feared."

It was a low blow. They both knew it.

Wanda licks her lips. Her voice quivers a bit when she says: "Then so be it."

He shakes his head. "I can't allow you to do that."

She glares at him fiercely, magic flaring in retaliation. "One last chance: tell me where Stark is." Scarlet wisps begin to dance atop her milky white skin, crackling and popping with dangerous intent.

Clint acts fast, swinging a fist to land a blow directly to her temple, but she's faster. She catches it with a slight flick of her forefinger. A red mist surrounds his hand. It moves quickly, consuming the rest of his body before he can do anything else.

His eyes widen. With what, Wanda doesn't know. Fear, most likely, but she can tell it's not fear _of_ her—it's fear _for_ her.

She forces him to his knees, and a vein pops out on his neck as he attempts to fight it. Her magic travels up and down his body, rendering him immobile. With a twitch of her hand, Clint's head snaps up with an audible crack. It allows Wanda to see the inner turmoil shown through his eyes; to see his soul. A raging tsunami of feeling crash in his striking blue hues, and his thoughts ring out loud and clear.

 _Don't become the monster the world believes you to be. Don't prove them right._

She ignores his mental torrent, though she can't disregard the pain and fear that seizes her heart at the comment. Wanda gives him one more chance—a weakness, she admits, to someone who she sees as a father. She doesn't want to hurt him, not really.

"Where. Is. Stark."

Clint sighs wearily, appearing a century older as his crestfallen gaze rests upon the witch. "I can't tell you."

She gives him longer than she should to change his mind. When he doesn't, her voice is flat as Wanda speaks once more. "Fine. You leave me no choice."

With that, she reaches down and lightly touches the pads of her fingers to his temple. Her eyes glow scarlet as she manipulates the wisps to her will, and dives into his mind.

Immediately, she's greeted with memories—good and bad. She flips through them like she would a book. He tries to push the good ones to her, the ones filled with images of her and Pietro laughing and _happy_.

 _He wouldn't want you to do this_ , Clint's thought echoes through the mindscape.

 _You know nothing of what he would want,_ replies Wanda bitterly.

There—the memory she is searching for appears behind Clint's mental defense. It's slippery, escaping from her grasp more than once before she finally catches hold of it. It's one of the clearest of them all, not yet distorted with the effects of time.

Wanda delves into the memory, watching intently through Clint's eyes as the other Avengers gather around Stark. She gleans the information she needs quickly, effortlessly.

She pulls out of Clint's mind a moment later and crouches down to his level. Stormy blue meets forest green in a battle of emotional will.

"Doing this won't change anything," he rasps.

The witch nods and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. He can't hug back, though she know he wants to. Wanda buries her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his warm, familiar scent.

She stays like that for a few minutes, relishing in Clint's fatherly aura. Then she pulls away. Wanda returns her slender fingers back to his temple, tears stinging her eyes as hers bore into his.

He swallows slow and thick, but says nothing. His eyes convey it all. _I don't blame you. Don't ever think I did. I will always love you, no matter what. Get that? No matter what._

Wanda's hues take on the scarlet rings once more as she jumps again into Clint's mind, this time her intent not so innocent.

She flips through all of his memories, erasing ones that connect him to her and Pietro. To the Avengers. To SHIELD. To anything that can pull him back into the fray.

Her powerful wisps drift out of the barn and into the house, seeping through the cracks and into the minds of the sleeping, oblivious, occupants.

When she leaves the barn with a heavy heart, Clint Barton is no longer Hawkeye. He is no longer an Avenger. He is just a farmer who lives a simple life with his wife and three kids.

…

Wanda, hidden in the undergrowth of a nearby forest, observes the house from afar. It's beautiful: three stories tall, constructed out of smooth, white marble bricks and dark mahogany wood. A garden of exotic plants decorate the front lawn, accompanied by benches facing an intricately designed fountain spewing crystal clear water from its spouts. The smell of salt water permeates the air and, in the distance, she can see the ground seemingly drop off into thin air, revealing the calm, twinkling ocean turning a dark ebony in the steadily approaching dusk.

It practically screams Stark.

Her magic crackles and pops on the tips of her fingers, moving atop her flesh in an angry dance as it responds to her will. A scarlet mist releases itself from her hands and travels through the surrounding forest, seeking out any and all signs of life. She tugs lightly with her magic at the threads of energy binding the world together, feeling birds, deer, ants, spiders, insects, _everything_. When she breathes, the life around her follows suit. They are one with each other, connected by the strands known only to her.

She expands her reach to the residence. A louder lifeform pulses rhythmically, unknowingly giving away its position by simply being human, its energy and thoughts different than the primal ones filling the wood.

No other mortal cogitations are present within a several mile radius, but, to be sure, Wanda strains her magic thinner to explore even further still. When she's sure no one can intervene, the witch recalls her powers.

Exhaustion suddenly overtakes her and she grasps onto a nearby tree for support, legs buckling from beneath her.

 _Come on,_ she thinks stubbornly _. So close. Just a while longer._

Wanda knows it's foolish to invade the Stark mansion now, while she's still weak from using one of her most taxing abilities, but it was now or never. Only twelve hours before, she had attacked and taken Clint's memories. It's only a matter of time before the Avengers know where she is and what she has done. Waiting any longer will allow them to arrive and defend the stuck up billionaire, and she will have no choice but to immobilize them as she had done to Clint.

She shivers at the thought. The witch doesn't want to hurt any of them—they are her friends. It's Stark that she wants, and she doesn't need the Avengers to be caught in the crossfire.

Wanda takes a deep, shuddering breath and pushes off the tree. She crouches low, taking cover behind the thick underbrush as she weaves her way towards the residence. She pauses when she reaches the edge of the forest, bracing herself for what's to come.

Her magic burns within her veins, twisting and contorting in a maelstrom of raw, uncontrollable power. Wanda conjures it, casting a bright scarlet glow over the darkened shrubbery around her, and bolts out from her cover.

The result is imminent. An alarm blares loudly, announcing her presence on the compound.

 _One hour_.

Almost immediately, bots burst forth from compartments hidden all around the lot. They swarm her, mercilessly firing bullets with deadly precision. With just a slight twitch of her fingers, magic springs from its place on her skin and into the air, dancing to its own song as it swirls around the offending weapons, exploding them mid flight. Her sorcery zips faster than lighting across the lawn, invading the inner workings of robots, reducing the advanced machinery to dust. She twists effortlessly out of the way of those she doesn't stop with her magic, the bullets burying themselves uselessly into the ground.

And then, as soon as it starts, it's over.

A suffocating silence follows the massacre. Dismantled bots and bullets that never hit their mark litter the ground, turning what was once a beautiful yard into a mass grave.

Wanda picks one of the bullets up, holding it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. _Not a bullet_ , she realizes. A _tranquilizer dart._ She scoffs, a short, breathy noise, and flicks the dart back into the sea of machinery.

The witch wipes the glistening sheen of sweat that is beginning to line her brow with the back of her hand. She approaches the front door, debris crunching under foot, and stands, palms facing outwards. With a simple push, magic shoots from her open palms and rips the door violently off its hinges.

 _Fifty-five minutes._

Wanda steps over the remains of the door and into the household, following a small corridor that leads into a giant, open room.

Comfortable looking couches angle to face a coffee table and a flatscreen TV that hangs above a fireplace, covering most of the far wall. On either side of it are two corridors leading further into the house. Large windows overlook the debris covered yard and a patio with a sparkling pool on the opposite side. The terrace ends abruptly, hanging precariously over the edge of the cliff, falling away to open skies and a calm ocean.

To her right is a kitchen, the only thing blocking it from being completely open to the adjacent living room is a circular island with a basket of fruit resting atop the smooth surface.

Once more, she searches for signs of Stark's mind signature, only to find it in the same spot. He's waiting for her, completely unmoving.

Wanda follows the cogitation down the left corridor. Before she can get far, however, the same rippling exhaustion from earlier seizes her. Stars burst across her vision. Her head spins. Air seems to completely escape from her lungs, leaving her gasping and breathless in its wake. She balls her hands into fists to distract herself from her boiling insides, leaving crescent shaped marks when her nails cut into her palms. Her magic burns through her veins, bubbling and frothing in a frenzied rage.

It takes a few minutes—what feels like hours—for the world to stand still, and for her magic to calm down. A deep breath. Another. And then another until she straightens, pulls her shoulders back, holds her head high, and continues her path.

She finds him in a room filled with games, drinking a glass of whisky and playing pool. Several flat screen TVs line the walls, accompanied by beanbags and other various types of chairs. On the far wall is a bar, cabinets filled to the brim with expensive looking liquor.

Stark continues to play against himself, paying the witch no heed. She watches him for a fleeting moment from the doorway, waiting patiently for him to acknowledge her presence. Several minutes pass until he curses, having missed one of the balls. He takes a giant swig of his drink before addressing her.

"Ever played pool?"

The question drips with an arrogant nonchalance that sends angry fires zipping through her whole body. How can he be so calm when he has killed so many? He has brought on so much pain—so much _suffering_ —but all he does is play games in the back of his fancy mansion on a cliffside in the middle of nowhere.

It's sickening.

"No? More of a ping pong girl?" Stark spins the cue stick around in his hand. "It's not as fun as most people make it out to be." He pauses for a moment, tilting his head in thought. "Especially playing against yourself."

The billionaire leans on the edge of the pool table, facing her. "Quite a mess you made. You _do_ realize that comes flying out of my wallet, right? I'm not a money well, kid."

Wanda's fingers twitch, itching to lay waste to him then and there, but she restrains herself, recalling the raging magic churning beneath her skin.

"Not much of a talker, I see," he nods steadily. "Good. I hate monologues."

"What do you call what you're doing now, then?" she questions with a raised brow.

"Monologuing," he answers immediately. "It's only cool when I do it. Pepper says it's because I like the sound of my own voice, but _I_ say—"

Stark doesn't get to finish his sentence. With a simple flick of her forefinger, Wanda sends a blast of scarlet magic careening towards him. The familiar sound of his iron armor zipping into place fills the air. He flies above the attack before the rest of his armor assembles, leaving her witchery to crash into the pool table. It rips the table in half, splintering it beyond recognition, and continues its destructive path to the far wall where it rams into the cabinets of liquor. The sound of glass shattering slices loudly through the air.

"Oh, great. Look what you've done now," Stark whines, his voice now robotic as the rest of the suit attaches itself to him.

 _Forty-five minutes._

He wastes no time in firing a blast of energy directly at her. Quicker than the blink of an eye, her hands shoot up, producing a thin film of magic. The shield absorbs the blast, rippling at the strong impact. Three more blasts follow, one after the other.

The shield flickers with the final blast. It cracks, a fissure racing across its surface, and disintegrates into red sparks.

Before he can attack again, Wanda twists her hands, moving her arms in an intricate dance. Scarlet magic jumps from within her, eager to tear into the billionaire. It responds to her will and spirals through the air in a dangerous arc.

The deadly wisps follow him as he flies around the room, veering out of the way of her magic. She begins to advance, all the while inhumanly twitching and flicking her hands. Her face is creased in concentration, and her lips are set in a tight frown.

Then something unknown strikes her from the side, sending her careening across the room. She lands in a heap on the floor—hard. Stars burst across Wanda's vision as her skull slams into the hardwood. Her side throbs in agony, screaming in protest to whatever Stark had hit her with.

It doesn't take her long to find out.

Almost immediately, one of Stark's Iron Legion towers over her, it's eyes glowing a vibrant, foreboding blue. She hears the metal creak as it bends down and pulls her up by the collar of her jacket.

Wanda thrashes in it's grip, ignoring the stabbing pain shooting throughout her body. She kicks uselessly at the metal as it raises her high above the ground. Her hands claw frantically at the bot's, slipping off the slick surface, and Wanda can feel her heart accelerating—beating faster and faster and faster as she sees Stark approaching from behind.

His helmet retracts to reveal his grim face. In his eyes are something Wanda can only describe as sadness—maybe even regret. It throws her off for a fraction of a second. Why would Stark, a man who has killed millions with his weapons of destruction, show remorse for things he ordered to happen?

But she doesn't pause long enough to seek the answer. Before he can open his conniving mouth, Wanda swings her palms together. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes ominously across the room. She forces her hands away from each other, twitching her fingers to manipulate the ball of crackling raw magic that she summoned in between them. It expands quickly—too quickly to track. Stark's face flashes to one of horror.

His helm filing back into place is the last thing she sees as a sonic boom reverberates through the air, and the ball explodes around them.

The blast wrenches Wanda away from the Iron Legionnaire and Stark. They are knocked further into the room while she flies backwards. Backwards into the windows. Backwards into the windows overlooking the crashing sea more than a hundred feet below the compound.

Glass around her shatters as she's thrown out. The witch feels time stop for a moment. She seems to hover above in the open air for a minute, gazing at the broken window she just came out of.

Wanda lazily turns her head to the sky. It's dark. Cloudy. The wind gently caresses her face and fans out her dark locks, letting them dance soundly in the calm breeze.

And then everything speeds up.

She's falling. Falling. Falling, falling, _falling_ , _falling_.

Wind billows around her. Her clothes rip against the gales. She scrambles for purchase. Her hands flail uselessly. A loud howl whips through her ears. Her blood pumps, heart races, veins throb.

She hears the ocean crashing beneath her; imagines it's dark, ebony waves rolling against the tide; imagines the depths; how far she'll sink when she slams into the water; how it'll hurt. Above her, she vaguely makes out a diving red and orange iron suit.

 _Will it be a quick death_ , she wonders, _or a violent one?_

Just as Wanda senses the waves curling, reaching up to pull her into their watery depths, her magic kicks in— _self preservation_ kicks in. For Pietro.

A burst of magic sends her up and away from the hungry waves. It fizzles out, and she drops once more. Her stomach lurches. Sea mist sprays as the water reaches for her once more.

Then she's being hoisted above the waves. Stark cradles her in his bulky arms, holding Wanda close to his chest. She clings tightly to him before she realizes what's happening.

Slowly, she comes to her senses. Wanda tilts her head back to stare into the luminescent eyes of the suit. He meets her gaze almost questionably.

Before Stark can react—before he can even comprehend what she's doing—Wanda tears her arm from its place wrapped around his neck, and places it upon the pulsing blue reactor in the middle of his chest. Her eyes turn a violent red, her lips curl into a snarl.

And she pushes. She pushes every last ounce of her magic into that one point. It tumbles out of her, flooding and invading the inner workings of Stark's suit. A sharp, mechanical gasp is the only thing heard besides the slowly dying machinery. The lights flicker. One. Twice. Then rapidly, over and over, before finally giving out.

Together, they're suspended in the air—enemies. Holding each other as they float above the ocean. They're suspended as enemies, and they fall as enemies.

Like a rock, Stark drops from the air, swiftly losing altitude, and Wanda falls with him.

Again her magic sings. It sends another burst against the billionaire, successfully detangling the two from each other. Wanda is sent reeling away before she catches herself on pillars of scarlet witchery emitting from her hands and feet.

She watches coldly from above as Stark hits the water. The waves swallow him whole, greedy in their feasting.

All is silent, save for the gentle lapping of water on the shore.

Wanda lowers herself closer to the ocean's surface. And dives in.

 _Twenty-five minutes._

Darkness consumes her. There is no sound. Under the waves, it's peaceful, almost. She swims deeper, searching, and through the murky waters appears Stark, limp and lifeless.

Wanda grabs hold and drags him out of the water to a nearby shore, where the sand clings incessantly to their bodies. She throws him down to the ground, satisfied with the crackling elicited from the short circuited suit, and tears his helm off. She tosses the piece of armor into the sea to be lost in oblivion.

The witch kicks him onto his side, and Stark spits out gulps of water. As he's lying, helpless, on the sand, Wanda gets on her knees. She cups her hands to his cheeks, and forces him to look into her eyes. Her nails dig into his flesh.

He wheezes, breath stuttering. But the most noticeable thing was the complete and utter _terror_ adorning his normally nonchalant features. A small part of her cries at that. She has become what everyone believes she is: a monster.

Wanda pushes the feeling down. She moves her lithe fingers to his temple, and delves into his mind.

The fear is amplified there, echoing around every nook and crany. She pays it no heed. She is quick and merciless in the removal of his most cherished memories, earlier doubts now thrown to the back of her mind as she rips the recollections violently away and crumbles them to dust, never to be recovered. Wanda can hear his panicked thoughts as she slowly strips away every last ray of light he has.

Pepper. His friends. The few good memories of his parents. Rhodey.

Every. Single. One.

Crushed.

 _Destroyed._

 _ **Obliterated.**_

Only darkness remains. His rage, misery, helpless, horror, remorse, desperate filled memories overtake his mind.

When Wanda pulls out, Stark is an insane mess. He claws frantically at the sand, sending it flying up in great plumes. Spit foams at his mouth as he screams, sharp and guttural, eyes wide and flying about, watching some invisible nightmare come to life before him.

"Now," Wanda murmurs, her silky voice disappearing into the wind, "you know what it is like to lose someone—what it is like to lose _everything_."

He gapes at her, tears pouring down his cheeks. His mouth hangs open limply in a permanent state of shock.

 _He's not staring at me_ , she realizes. _He's staring_ through _me._

Stark raises a hand in front of his face, staring at the gauntlet. Somehow, it sputters to life. His brow furrows as if he is debating something before he looks up to see through Wanda once more.

She does nothing as he activates the repulsor.

 _Ten minutes._

Wanda slumps back, exhausted. Through another plane, she can see the threads of the world vibrating. The one that connected to Stark turned black and was whisked away into the breeze. Now she gazes at her lightly throbbing scarlet string with the black one curled tightly around it.

With a heavy heart, she lets it go. It unfurls and catches on an unseen wind. Tears brim her eyes as she watches Pietro's thread float away into the distance.

 _Five minutes_.

She stares at the dark horizon. The clouds roll across the sky, and thunder booms from a far off place, declaring a storm.

And a storm does come.

Wanda lets the exhaustion overtake her; relinquishes her control. She's done. Her magic throbs beneath her veins, tumbling in a maelstrom of raw power that is begging to be released. Her body shudders. She twitches. A twitch becomes an excessive shake, and the shake becomes her whole body convulsing on the sand.

Dark scarlet wisps, much darker than her normal ones, spring to life upon her seizing flesh. They crackle and pop as they dance along her skin. Soon, flesh isn't enough. The magic jumps off of her body and into the surrounding area. It twists through the air, zipping like lightning. Glass begins to appear around her as the witchcraft overheats the sand. She cuts herself on them, and red blood flows out to taint the ground.

 _One minute._

Her whole body hurts. She can't do anything anymore. She can't breath, can't speak, can't move. All she knows is endless pain and suffering as she lays, convulsing, on the beach. Her eyes begin to glow red—to _burn_ red, to _be_ red.

Everything around her is encompassed in a scarlet haze.

And then, it stops.

Wanda utters her last breath next to her sworn enemy. She slumps to the ground, still; lifeless. The burning scarlet in her eyes dies out. The magical haze disperses.

 _Time's up._

The rest of the Avengers arrive too late. They gape in horror at the two red forms slumped side by side, both being engulfed by the blue waters of the ocean.

For the first time in a long while, the Avengers cried.


End file.
